


Trouble

by TheRealSEHinton



Category: The Outsiders (1983), The Outsiders - All Media Types, The Outsiders - S. E. Hinton
Genre: I was feeling inspired, I wrote it on a whim, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, but i still want to be safe, i honestly don't know what to say please fuygfygduygudf, i swear nothing is graphic at all, idk wtf this is, my feelings on this are: dgyfuygfgfif, okay this is so weird, um this references and implies some heavy stuff lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:34:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26961469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRealSEHinton/pseuds/TheRealSEHinton
Summary: Dallas can act as mean as he wants and anyone can believe it, but at the end of the day, everyone knows who he is. You’re not like that. He’s honest and all you ever do is lie.You look in the mirror and you see something that shouldn’t exist, there isn’t a truthful thing about you.Cause the trouble isn’t him, it’s you.
Relationships: Johnny Cade/Dallas Winston
Comments: 12
Kudos: 51





	Trouble

**Author's Note:**

> idk what to say for some reason i wanna say I'm sorry

"That boy is no good," people would say.

Mostly middle-aged women with their hair rolled up and around their ears, large pearls at the side of their head and hanging over their collarbone, and their tongues clucking behind their red-stained lips--a disapproving tsk tsk sound. 

On blue nights by the open window of the living room, where the wind blew through her black curls, your mother agreed with them "He's just trouble."

She dangled a cigarette delicately with her fingers, looking ethereal in the moonlight. You recognized her as a human being, something she often didn't resemble. And her voice felt familiar when she spoke cause she was speaking to you for once, not over or around you. It was rare and strange, to be noticed by her.

“I knew boys like that,” she’d murmur, her stare intent on the outside world and distant. “Back when I was young like you, I knew those boys.”

Her gaze slid over to you, eyes shining like glass. “There’s no business to have with men like them, Johnny.”

When half her mind isn’t lost in the bottle, you like to imagine that she might understand you--understand you in more ways than you’d think. It’s in the silver of her voice as it whispers over you, and the warmth it carries. And the way her brown eyes seem to glow in spite of the darkness. 

It makes you think that she knows more than she’s letting on. Something you barely take the time to admit to yourself. 

She’d sigh by that windowpane, leaning her head against the wall and watching clouds of smoke float like mist from her lips. “Those boys… they never change, Johnny.”

But that’s the thing, you don’t want to change him.

Not that you don’t think he’s some kind of fuck up. You know he is. But that’s what you all are on this side of town, a whole lotta failures, a bunch of good for nothings. 

People think they’ve got you pegged. One glance and you’re just like the rest of them, another greasy kid, dark-skinned, slick-haired, blade in your left pocket, and trouble in your shadow. But they look a little closer and act like there’s something different. Hiding just beyond your long bangs and hunched shoulders, beneath the tough rips in your jeans--there’s something different. 

You’ve heard that all your life growing up.

“You’re not like the rest of them,” your teachers would sigh, they’d grip the sleeves of your denim jacket and smile and almost plead. 

The women in your church would shake their heads and hold you close. Whisper in your ear and overwhelm you with their floral perfumes. “You’re one of the good ones, mijo.”

And they all said it without saying it.

“You can change, Johnny. You can be different.”

You weren’t different at all, you knew that. And you weren’t much different than that Dallas Winston. He riles things up for fun--dull moments and people--he runs around doing as he pleases, and sometimes hurt happens, sometimes he won’t do right. But then there you are, burning your nails into the softness of your palms and drawing your own blood when you get too mad, gnawing all over your body, decomposing it piece by piece with blades and cold and hunger until eventually you’ll just die, hurting yourself as a distraction so you don’t hurt anyone else. What’s the difference between him knocking someone by their jaw and you stealing your dad’s bottles--drinking half on your own and then throwing the rest in a flaming oil can, watching the alcohol rise up in flames with ditzy, drunk eyes. 

He’s better than you’ll ever be, if you’re gonna be honest. You told Pony that once and he gave you this look--like you just swore in church, and you haven’t mentioned it since. But it’s true and you know it, even though no one has taken the time to agree with you. 

You can try all you want, you can look at him microscopically--hold a magnifying glass to his body and squint your eyes like this and that. You’ll never be able to find the trouble everyone seems to notice. 

What’s the real trouble with Dallas Winston? He got locked up at 10 years old, got involved in all sorts of chaos--situations he was never meant to be in as a little kid. His mom died, his dad was an asshole, he was looking for a way out and he found one. In the end, his little wrists were shackled and he was tossed away somewhere cold, discarded like some kind of trash, something dispensable. And he heard it enough so maybe he started believing it, at some point he didn’t think he was worth enough of anything to care about death. When you’ve got nothing to lose then what is there to live for? And what did he have to prove to the world when the world didn’t care about him anymore. Maybe there wasn’t ever a choice for him. No parents no friends no family no love, nothing to hold onto--and most of his life spent growing up in the cooler.

That ain’t trouble. A kid growing up with memories and scars, no connections and no feelings, no one who ever showed him real love. All he knows is how to hurt--how to hurt himself and others, cause that was the only thing anyone bothered to teach him. Hurt is all he knows, but it’s not in the soft blue of his eyes. It’s not in the way he melts a little at the sight of something helpless, his shoulders tensing less and his teeth chewing at the inside of his cheek, setting his mouth kind of funny--and you recognize that as the expression he makes when he’s trying to hide something. There’s a kindness that blossoms in him and it’s all too easy to see--even though you’re the only one who notices, anyhow.

“I hate kids,” he’ll mutter behind gritted teeth anytime they bother getting too close for comfort. But there’s a way he looks at Angel, a way he looks at Curly too when he isn’t busy cursing him out. And in those moments where Ponyboy flirts with danger, to piss Darry off probably, Dallas is the first to grab him by the shirt collar and yank him away, yell obscenities at him and prod him in the chest with a sharp finger--“goddamit kid, do you ever fucking use your head? One day you’re gonna hurt yourself. Don’t look at me like that, man, I ain’t Darry. I’ll slap your head upside down and I won’t apologize for it, neither.”

Trouble, there ain’t no trouble at all. People call him mean but he’s too soft for that, you think. You walk together at sundown, just the two of you, hands in your pockets and sneakers kicking pebbles on the sidewalk, laughing a little and saying nothing at all. And then a dog’ll walk by, or a cat. They stop by his feet cause they can just tell he’s all good--animals got senses like that. He’ll bite the inside of his cheek again, to keep from smiling, and crouch down, scratch them soft under their necks and by their bellies and then stand up. He’ll see you grinning like dumbass and roll his eyes--“shut the fuck up, Johnnycakes.”

If there ever was a good person, that’s Dallas Winston. He’s got all you need to be good. He’s loyal to his friends, he’s kind, he’s good-hearted, he’s the most generous person you’ve ever come across. You got more of his shirts in your closet than your own, his room up at Buck’s is just another home to you. He’s covered for just about everyone in the gang and then some, probably covered for the Shepard’s too. 

That ain’t trouble.

Dallas can act as mean as he wants and anyone can believe it, but at the end of the day, everyone knows who he is. You’re not like that. He’s honest and the all you ever do is lie. You lie to yourself, you lie to your parents, you lie to your friends, you lie to the world.

You look in the mirror and you see something that shouldn’t exist, there isn’t a truthful thing about you. 

Cause the trouble isn’t him, it’s you at nine years old, looking up at a painting of Jesus Christ and feeling a burning sensation at the back of your neck. He was telling you something and you could hear it clear as day. It made you squirm in church pews, it made you cry whenever you prayed. Your mom would look at you with worry and the guilt formed in your stomach like a knot. You felt it, so present, so tangible, and you knew God was looking down at you just frowning cause you were bad. You were bad, you were bad, and you still are.

The trouble is your eyes looking over a wire fence, catching the next-door neighbor. Seeing a little kid take care of the lawn with his father, watching as he noticed your stare and smiled, waved to you, and you started to feel sick--because there was something there that wasn’t right, and he didn’t even know. His smile crushed you. 

The trouble is that fire in your chest when you’re angry. A fire that’s so strong it itches your fingers. And your mind is overwhelmed with flashes of heat, dark and consuming and piercing. And thoughts cross your mind as you steal whatever you can find in your house, your mother’s jewelry or your father’s magazine, cigars, lipstick, shirts, beer, and you hold a lighter over them--watching them burn in some twisted satisfaction. Those thoughts, that’s the real trouble.

No one really knows you, and you don’t care for that to happen. You don’t want anyone to look into your eyes long enough to see something that’ll scare them away. Because you’re everything that’s wrong with the world, and you deserve everything that comes to you.

“You reap what you sow.” It’s a bible verse, you remember those words in the distant corners of your mind. Over the 16 years of your life you’ve sowed and you’ve reaped, and maybe that’s why God does exist. Cause every sin you’ve committed in your dreams probably accumulates into those cold nights spent in the lot, purple bruises and cracked ribs.

You’re bad. You’re bad and you deserve it.

Lonely moments where you cry in the bathroom, where your hand travels north and south and all around--digging deep and grasping for something that feels like heaven and hell all at once--and you have faces in your mind, stomachs in your mind, long slender fingers in your mind, and cool blue eyes in your mind. And you keep those in your sight selfishly, selfishly so that you can feel for a moment until it’s over. It’s disgusting, you know it is. You beg yourself to stop and you don’t listen--because deep down you don’t want to.

You’re bad.

And death and the way it plagues you. People like Pony, they look around the world and all they see is light--everything vibrant, colorful, and beating. They see a sunset and think of a sunrise, and they look at stars and moons like shining, blue angels. But everything you touch is dark, everything you want is dark. That’s all you can think of sometimes--your mind is rotten and decaying so slowly, day by day, and it wants to drag everyone down with it. You feel a blade in your hands, you feel the metal and smell the coolness of the iron, and it makes you want to smile. Sometimes, it seems like you like death--like you want it. Sometimes, it’s all you can think of.

Trouble. Good boys don’t look at their fathers the way you do, they don’t imagine the things you think. Good boys don’t look at your friends the way you do, they don’t get that feeling in their stomach.

Dallas Winston is nothing like you, he couldn’t be and he shouldn’t be. You’ve cried thinking about what you would give to be him. That maybe on the outside people would see something mean, but at least on the inside you were good. You wouldn’t have to pretend, you wouldn’t have to pray, you could just be good.

“Those boys never change.” You remember those words again.

“He’s no good for you.”

You don’t believe it, you never could. Days pass by as you try to be something you’re not, as you dig deep for a sense of morality that isn’t there. Your dad kicks at you and hits on you and you know it’s what you deserve. When your mother yells at you all you do is listen, because she calls you useless and awful and you know she’s right. 

When the gangs smile at you, it makes you feel guilty all over again. They call you their friend, their pet like always, and you wish you could be what they see in you. And with Dallas, it’s a little strange, you know being around him should drive you mad--it should remind you of all the things wrong with you. But often you find yourself too happy to remember, even though you got no right to be happy.

He grins so gently. He calls you “Johnnycake” and your heart lifts. 

And one night, you’re both drunk. It happens so quick you don’t even realize it, the way the alcohol courses through your brain. You look into his eyes and see it all again, that goodness you wish you could soak up, that softness. 

“Trouble,” you say out loud, voice giddy with beer, “there ain’t no trouble with you at all.”

He smiles and your brain melts in your skull.

Something clicks in the both of you when you’re alone in his room, when you’re wearing his too-large shirt and he lies next to you on his bed. You’re staring at each other again, and his face is set so soft--you’re wondering if he’s looking at you the way you look at him.

Your body goes warm when he says, “Johnnycakes.”

Then the room is dark, and your brain is hot and your body is hot, and he’s closer than you ever imagined. Because he’s kissing you. Dallas Winston is kissing you.

Dallas Winston is kissing a boy, the way you’ve dreamed of kissing boys all your life. The way you’ve imagined and cried over and cursed and hated. The way Jesus hates, you think. The way God has punished you for.

It’s strange, because it’s like he’s asking to be punished too. And of all the people he could kiss on his bed, he chose you. And it must be a mistake, so you wait for him to stop. But he doesn’t. That’s when you realize that you should stop him, remind him that this isn’t right, this isn’t natural. But you don’t. Because you want him, don’t you. You’ve always wanted him. And you want this, his hands touching your spine, his lips on your neck, his legs by your hips. You want everything that happens to you that night, each drunken carress--clumsy and tentative. It’s all new, it’s all bad, and it makes you feel alive. Alive for the first time in your life.

But then you wake up in the morning, and you realize he isn’t there. You cry before you can help yourself, cry until you shake and can’t breathe. Because you fucked everything up, fuck-ups are all you're good for. And Dallas must have realized that.

He must have realized that you were the real trouble all along.


End file.
